At this moment, when I’ve watched the L of your elbow in the frame of your truck window, backing out the driveway—the L of your elbow in the lit frame of your truck window—and we both know the eye may tender more than what passes—I may swing the door almost shut. And you may roll to the end of the driveway, pull on a hesitant eyebrow, and I may stay standing here, arms at sides, justified margins. Inside the house a bowl of flowers floats in front of the mirror, none of them weathering. We have talked. We have talked while planets tick outside the window. There are times when I’m not sure where to look. Where it’s safe to land a look.